


Name Every Star

by AgnesBlue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Derek In Heat, Drama, High School, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No Smut, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesBlue/pseuds/AgnesBlue
Summary: Stiles drew in a deep breath. “I heard you’re looking for a heat mate,” he said.“And?”Stiles motioned towards himself.Derek regarded him quietly for a few long seconds. Shrouded in the sunless afternoon light, he felt like a mafia boss, regarding a puny underling. “You want to fill that position?”“…Yes,” Stiles said determinedly. “I am applying for the job.”AU in which Derek is looking for someone to help during his first heat. Stiles, an omega with a ruined reputation, applies for the job.





	Name Every Star

**Author's Note:**

> Posted a long time ago under a different title that I cannot remember for the life of me. I promise I'll finish it this time.
> 
> Potential triggers of past rape. The beginning may be a bit disingenuous but this is not smut.
> 
> Angst alert: I happen to be the queen of angst and enjoy injecting copious amounts of it into my stories, so please be aware that this could get a bit dreary. Read at your own risk.  
> And to those who do, thank you so much for reading! And a special thanks for those who leave a comment. I really appreciate it when you take the time to tell me what you think, whether good or bad. They act as a little boost of energy that keeps me going, so thank you :)

Derek sat at a desk in the empty classroom, a hand curled under his cheek. Stiles Stilinski stood in front of him, looking for all the world like a nervous little kid. He hadn’t said a single word since he entered the room. 

School was out for the day and nearly everyone had gone home. Derek could sense the emptiness inside the building, the lack of noise other than the janitor scrubbing the floor downstairs, the  _squick squick_  of lemon spray, and the gusty autumn wind pulsing against the windows.

Derek made an impatient gesture.  _Start talking._

Stiles drew in a deep breath. “I heard you’re looking for a heat mate,” he said.

“And?”

Stiles motioned towards himself.

Derek regarded him quietly for a few long seconds. Shrouded in the sunless afternoon light, he felt like a mafia boss, regarding a puny underling. “You want to fill that position?”

“…Yes,” Stiles said determinedly. “I am applying for the job.”

Derek had wondered what he wanted when Stiles cornered him and demanded to see him after practice was over. He should have known.

“Why?”

For a second, it seemed as if Stiles wouldn’t answer. But then he squared his shoulders. “I need the money.”

Derek snorted a little. At least he was honest. Stiles looked at him, as if waiting for Derek to ask what he needed it for. Derek didn’t particularly care. He didn’t want to hear some sob story.

“Do you even know what a heat mate does?”

“Of course I do,” Stiles said, a trifle indignantly. “You’re an alpha. You need an omega for sexual release when you go into heat. It’s not rocket science.”

Derek looked at him, fist still under his chin. “And why should I choose you?”

At that, Stiles flushed angrily. Derek knew they were both thinking of Stiles’ reputation at school. It wasn’t a particularly good one.

Stiles’ eyes bounced around the room. “I…I know I’m not a virgin, but…” He balled his hands into fists. “I’m really good!”

“You’re really good,” Derek said flatly.

“I am. I’m the best you will ever have. I have tons and tons of experience and…I will blow your socks off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean it; you will not be disappointed. You’re going to be bragging to your friends, and giving them referrals.”

“Uh-huh.” Derek wasn’t moved.

Stiles seemed a bit desperate. “I’ll show you.”

Before Derek could ask ‘how?’ Stiles was on his knees. He pushed Derek’s thighs slightly apart, then wiggled forward to insert himself in the space between his legs. He unbuckled the button of Derek’s jeans, unzipped him, and pulled the flaps down. He pulled down his boxers, just enough to pull his dick out, and wrapped his hand around the base.

“I’m going to do it,” Stiles announced.

“Go ahead,” Derek said wryly. 

Stiles stared at his dick for the longest time, eyes huge and uncertain, mouth slightly parted. “I’m going to start now.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

Stiles leaned in, and gave the tip a timid lick with the flat of his tongue. He tilted his head to the side, and Derek watched with a frown as Stiles nibbled at it a little, like a small rodent gnawing on a stick.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Derek said, a few seconds later. Because while he was no expert himself, it was obvious Stiles had no idea what he was doing. Derek pushed him away and Stiles sat back on his calves, cheeks red-hot with embarrassment. Derek wordlessly tucked himself back in. He was standing up to leave when Stiles spoke.

“Please, Derek,” Stiles said quietly. He was still kneeling on the floor. “I’ll do whatever you want. I really need the money.”

 _I’ll think about it_ , Derek would have said, just to be polite, but he wasn't sure that it wouldn’t be a lie. He left without another word.

 

* * *

  

He drove home and parked his car in front of the house. It had rained all throughout the morning, and the dirt smelled fresh and rich and wet.

When he went inside, he was greeted by his mother’s voice drifting out from the living room. “Derek, is that you, sweetheart?”

He got himself a glass of cold water from the kitchen refrigerator and went to find his mom. She was sitting on the little chair in the sunlight and reading a mystery novel. She smiled when she saw him.

“You’re late today,” she said.

“Something came up.”

She asked him about school, and he told her it went alright. She asked him about lacrosse, and he told her it went alright.

“How’s the search going?” she said, setting her book aside. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“You need to find someone soon. This isn’t something you can put off.”

“I know.”

“I’ve received a few more applications, if you’re interested. They’re on the kitchen counter.”

“I’ll look them over after dinner.”

“Your heat will be on you before you know it. And you won’t be able to control yourself,” his mother warned him. They were all familiar words by now.

“I’ll find someone,” he promised. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and took his glass of water upstairs. In his room, he stared at the mirror stuck on the wall above the squat drawer chest, and the thick-browed face stared back at him.

He was seventeen. He should have had his first heat at least two years ago. Most male alphas started much younger. But he’d never been really interested in sex, and he had assumed his body was following his brain’s lead instead of the other way around. He hadn’t really given much thought to it, and would have been fine if it never happened. But as it were, it was starting, and he needed to roll with the punches.

Right now he couldn’t even imagine not being in control of himself, but he knew his mom was right. Once the heat hit, he’d be, according to literature, a salivating penis on legs unless he had an omega to keep him sane. The thought was distasteful, but something that couldn’t be helped, nevertheless. He didn’t harbor any illusions that he wasn’t a captive to biology. It was going to happen, whether he liked it or not. His only duty was to find someone before then.

 

* * *

 

He ate dinner with his family, washed the dishes because it was his turn to wash them, and then sat at the large dining table to look over the applications that had come in. There were eight in total. Nearly all of them were from families, a nice mix of both girls and guys, with only one from the red-light district. He examined the profiles and the photographs that came along with the applications. He wanted to choose carefully.

As he was reading through then, his uncle Peter sank gracelessly into the chair beside him and scanned the applications. “Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.”

Derek ignored him. None of them were unattractive; his uncle was just being an ass. But none of them appealed to him either. He was a little discouraged.

“Need some help deciding?”

“That would be nice, yes.”

“Easy. Go with this one,” Peter said, stabbing a finger on a sheet, and Derek leaned sideways to see which one he meant. The brothel-worker.

He gave his uncle an inquisitive glance.

“After your week is over, you pay her and she’ll slink quietly back to her place of residence and you’ll never hear or see from her again. But these other kids, they all want something from you.”

“Which is?”

“To be your wife.”

Derek’s eyes fell on the pictures scattered over the sheets of paper, the batch of young, fresh-faced omegas smiling widely into the camera.

“It’s nicer for everyone that way. Trust me,” Peter said. "They get clingy. They beg. It's not a pretty sight."

Derek knew there was a lot of truth to what his uncle was saying. The families were playing Russian roulette in the hopes their child would be married into an alpha family. If it didn’t culminate in a marriage, then that omega was most likely ruined for life. The likelihood that another alpha would accept them as a partner in a serious relationship was very slim.

He took another glance at the girl from the brothel. She was pretty, with demure lips that made her look like a porcelain doll. She was smiling, but her smile wasn’t like that of the other omegas. He pushed them all aside and stood up from the table.

“No luck?” his dad asked when he passed by the living room. Derek shook his head. “Well, you still have some time left.”

“But not by much,” his mom added.

“I’ll find someone,” Derek said again.

 

* * *

 

A day or two went by. He went to school and played lacrosse and got an A on his history paper. He could feel his heat inching closer, clawing its way to him like a determined, legless zombie.

On Friday, Laura called, asking if he could look after her daughter for the evening. Friday was date night. Their babysitter was down with a bad case of the flu and couldn’t make it. If she didn’t find someone, she was going to miss an art gallery. She made it sound as if that would be some awful tragedy.

When Laura was harried, she turned into a marine drill sergeant.

“Can you do it or not?” she barked. “Tell me now.”

“I – ”

She interrupted him. “There’s no reason why you can’t take her for a few hours. You have absolutely nothing going on in your life.”

Apparently no one had told her that she could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

“I can,” he said, a bit testily.

“Oh, thank you, you’re an absolute sweetheart,” she gushed, although it was a bit too late for that.

So at six, he found himself on the front porch, a tiny and slightly sticky hand clasped in his, waving at the car departing down the gravel road and telling a little girl with black curls, “They’re going to be back soon.”

“I know,” Evie responded, in the tone of voice most people used to say  _duh_.

They went inside. Everyone had gone out for the night and it was just them in the house. He cut up some spaghetti and meatballs for her and gave her a box of apple juice. He sat her on his lap and read her a few books but after a while, she grew restless. She was drowsy, but refused to sleep. He knew that driving around for a while tended to knock her out. He strapped her into the baby seat, turned on some baby songs and opened all four windows halfway so it wouldn’t get too stuffy. The soapy, spicy smell of pine trees filled the car.

He drove aimlessly around town, the over-enunciating, over-perky lady singing ‘Incy wincy spider’ and 'Ten little monkeys' starting to drive him up the wall. The light from the streetlamps made strange patterns over his skin. Whenever he glanced in the rear-view mirror, hoping to see Evie’s head at a droopy tilt and her eyes closed, she was instead staring out the window with the graveness of an old man contemplating the meaning of life.

There weren’t many cars on the road at this hour; people were already where they wanted to be, either at home or the bar. It would be another two hours before Laura came to pick her up. He turned into a street with a row of shops and thought,  _what the hell_.

“Ice cream?” he said. She perked up like a puppy and nodded.

He parked in the small lot beside the mint-green parlor that had been designed to look quaint and charming, like something from days gone by. A bell tinkled above the door as he went inside, clutching Evie's small hand. Cold, sugary air rushed over his bare arms. There were stacks of crisp-baked waffle cones, and colorfully mounded tubs nestled inside a dipping cabinet. A couple sat at a table, each nibbling on a cone.

“Welcome to Gracie Lou’s,” a voice called out. A familiar face was behind the glass.

“Hey,” Stiles said, when he saw who it was. His cheeks turned slightly pink. It matched the candy-pink cap that topped his round head, and the candy-pink apron around his waist.

“Hey,” Derek said.

Stiles’ eyes fell on Evelyn and his eyes widened. “Is that your daughter?” 

Derek was disgruntled. “My niece.”

“Hello, there. I’m Stiles. You’re adorable, aren’t you?” Stiles said, waggling his fingers at her.

She pressed her dumpling-plump cheek against Derek’s thigh, her shy, mistrustful little heart not in the least thawed by the compliment.

“Her name’s Evie,” Derek said.

“Hi, Evie. How old are you?”

She held up five fingers.

“She’s three. She can’t bend her fingers like that yet,” Derek said.

Stiles smiled, showing a row of teeth. Derek had never seen him smile like that. “What can I get you two?”

Derek lifted the girl into his arms so she could see the tubs and asked her what flavor she wanted.

“The blue one,” she said, as he had known she would. She normally went with the most vibrant, chemically-enhanced color. She pointed, her fingernail the size of a baby corn kernel.

“You don’t want chocolate?” Derek said.

“The blue one,” she repeated.

“Dude, she wants the blue one,” Stiles said. “The lady knows what she wants.”

“Yeah, but then she cries because it doesn’t taste like chocolate.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Well, how about I mix it up for you? Would that work?”

“She’s getting the mini cup,” Derek said. You could only get one flavor for the mini cup.

Stiles flapped a hand. “It’s fine. Totally not a problem.”

“Would you like that?” Derek asked Evelyn. "Chocolate and the blue one?"

She considered the suggestion. “Yeth.”

Derek watched as Stiles dipped the spatula into the hoar-frosted tubs and filled the paper cup, scraping the ice cream neatly against the rim. He was serious as he worked. His lashes were dark against his pale cheeks. Despite having them wrapped around his cock a few days ago, Derek noticed for the first time that his fingers were long and pretty. Evelyn wrinkled her nose.

“Don’t you work at the pizza place over on Keller Street?” Derek said.

“I wear many hats,” Stiles said. He tucked in a spoon, and Derek reached out to take the cup from his outstretched hand. “Here you go. Nothing for you?”

“No, I don't really like ice cream.”

He thought Stiles would respond with something cheeky to that, but he simply made a funny face that said it all.

Derek set Evelyn down to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. Stiles’ gaze flickered up at him from the cash register, and the tips of his ears burned red. Derek wondered if they were both thinking the same thing.

"Enjoy your ice cream," Stiles said.

The old couple had left minutes ago and they had the entire place to themselves. Derek led Evelyn over to the table in the corner and settled her into a chair. She ate primly from the cup. She went for the chocolate first.

As Derek watched her eat, the bell jingled and several pairs of feet shuffled in. The stench of cigarettes and movie-theater popcorn ruffled the air and Derek turned his head to see three burly teenagers entering in a single file.

“Hey, Stilinski,” the guy at the front of the line called out, giving it a douchebag drawl so that it came out more like ‘Stee-lin-skay’. Derek’s eyes went sharp at the sudden alarm and fear that flared up from behind the counter. It was so bad that it twisted his stomach and even little Evie’s eyes burned gold. Derek patted her hand before she could get upset and quietly soothed her that it was okay.

Stiles darted a glance towards Derek, as if making sure he was still there. Derek leaned back, tense, keeping an eye on the group. Two of them he knew from school.

“Aren’t you going to say hi?” Ethan said.

When Stiles spoke, his voice was weak and reedy. “What can I get you?”

“I don’t know. What can you get me?”

Stiles hunched in on himself. “Just…give me your order.”

"You're really not going to say hi? That's not very polite."

"...Hi."

Ethan looked at him for a long, deliberate moment, grinning like a shark. “I’d like a milkshake,” he said finally. “Extra-large.”

Stiles reached for a cup. “What flavor?”

“How about cherry pop?” Ethan said.

“…We don’t have that," Stiles said.

“Yeah, not anymore, I guess. That’s more of a one-time only deal, isn’t it?”

Stiles stood still, not answering. His face was very pale.

“Give me the vanilla,” Ethan said. “With every topping you have in it.”

The machine whirred as Stiles blended the ingredients together. He looked smaller, his back to the three as if he was too scared to turn around and face them. When he was done, he covered the cup with a plastic lid and quickly set the ice cream shake on the glass counter top. “That’ll be 9.05.”

Ethan struck the cup with his hand. It toppled over and Derek heard it explode in a wet, meaty  _splat_  on the floor on the other side of the counter.

“Oops,” Ethan said.

Stiles stared down at his feet.

“Better clean that up,” Ethan said. He made an obscene gesture with his fingers and tongue. And with that, he left, sniggering, his friends trailing after him. Outside, a car revved and rumbled off.

Stiles opened the door to a closet and brought out a mop. He began to clean up the mess, his face completely expressionless. Derek didn't know to do or say, and he sat there like a lump, watching him. The smell of sugar and milky-cream was cloying.

To Derek’s surprise, a man stepped out from the staff-only room that had been hidden behind a X. He was thin, with a white Van Dyke beard and black-rimmed glasses perched on his spongy nose, a fifty pounds lighter colonel Sanders. The man jerked his chin.  _Get in here_. Stiles set the mop against the wall and followed him inside. 

Evelyn was having trouble finishing the last bites of her ice cream. Derek scraped a spoon along the sides and finished it for her. Parts of the conversation drifted over to the table.

“...This isn’t working out.”

“What? What happened out there… that had nothing to do with me," Stiles said. "I didn't do anything."

The manager muttered, too low for Derek to hear.

“How is it my fault?”

“Look, Stiles. You’re a hard worker, I have nothing bad to say about that. You do the work of four insipid teenagers and you’re damned good at what you do. You come in on time, you’re not stoned, you don’t talk back. You talk a lot, but you don’t talk back. But I need someone who goes with the store’s image.”

“And I don’t.”

“Aww, kid,” the manager said, sounding embarrassed. “You know what people say about you. I need someone clean-cut, sweet, like my ice cream. Not someone who’s known as the neighborhood bus.”

There was a long silence.

“Your dad was a good man. I let you start because of him, but - "

"Is."

"Huh?"

"He  _is_  a good man," Stiles said fiercely.

The manager muttered again.

" _Please_. I need this job. Nobody will hire me."

The manager sighed. “You don’t have to come in tomorrow or any of the days after that. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it's gotta be.”

When Stiles walked back out, his apron and hat were gone. He reached under the counter and brought out his back pack. He gave Derek a quick, tremulous smile that broke immediately apart, then pushed his way out the glass door. Derek watched him walk by through the window.

He tossed the soggy cup into the trash bin, cleaned Evie's hands and cheeks with some wet wipes and went home.

 

* * *

 

Derek slept poorly. His mind kept going to the incident the night before, replaying it over and over again. In the morning, he splashed cold water over his face and chugged black coffee until his mom took his mug away and told him this was how people ended up with holes in their stomach lining and died. He drove to school and listened to the drone of the teachers. Just as third period was beginning, he burst out of his seat. He swiftly made his way down the stairs to the first floor and banged his way into a classroom. The teacher stopped mid-sentence, chalk pressed against the blackboard. 

"Excuse me. We're in the middle of class," the teacher said.

He went over to the back row where Stiles was sitting at his desk, his gaze down. He looked up when Derek's shadow fell over his lap. 

“Are you still interested?” Derek demanded.

Stiles stared at him, eyes going round and wide. “What?”

"Derek. Please return to your classroom," the teacher called out. "You're being disruptive."

He ignored her. “Yes or no? It’s not that hard.”

Stiles sat up quickly, almost quivering in excitement. “Yes. Hell, yes.”

Something curled up in his chest in vicious satisfaction. Derek nodded. “My lawyer will be in touch with you.”

He turned and left before the teacher could give him detention.

At home that night, over dinner, he told his parents that he’d found someone.

“Yay!” his mother said, clapping her hands in delight. “Who is it? Is it anyone I know?”

He told her.

“Oh…” she said, frowning, drawing out the word, clearly disappointed. She pressed her hands against her cheeks. “The sheriff’s kid?”

“Yes.”

“Derek…” she said cautiously.

“I know about him, mom.”

"Do you?"

He nodded. "I do."

It would be fine. He didn't want a wife. He didn't want to be responsible for an omega at his age. He ate the rest of his eggplant parmigiana, then took his dish to the sink and went upstairs to his room. He was in a better mood than he had been in a long time.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, they sat at a table at one of the private rooms in the poncy tea house. He hadn't wanted Stiles to come over all the way to the Preserve and called to meet up in town. For some reason, Peter decided to tag along. When Derek asked 'why?' he'd been given some claptrap answer about wanting what was best for his favorite nephew and providing moral support. Which was bullshit. Boredom was probably closer to the truth. Peter had also picked the location for the meet-up and the establishment was unnecessarily pretentious and expensive. Derek kept expecting a geisha to show up and titter at them.

On the table, there was an array of pastel petit fours set on a tiered plate, and everyone each had a cup of steaming tea in front of them, a yellow flower drifting on the surface. Stiles poked at it with a finger.

Their lawyer slid papers towards Stiles and plucked out an elegant pen from his breast pocket. Mr. Rockwell did not look like a lawyer. He looked, rather, like a grandfatherly teddy bear dressed up in a suit. When he smiled, sometimes people had the urge to pinch his cheeks. It would not have been a good idea.

Stiles eagerly leaned over, grabbing the pen. “Where do I sign?”

“Read it first, dummy,” Derek said.

Stiles calmed down. His eyes moved continuously as he read down line after line of tight black print that filled the page like barbed wire.

“Feel free to ask any questions,” the lawyer said pleasantly. Peter was drinking his tea with his pinkie finger stuck up in the air. 

“Yes. How much exactly do I get as compensation?”

The lawyer told him and Stiles' mouth fell open in an O. “Seriously? That much?”

“Quite. You will receive half of it up front, then the rest when it's all over. If Mr. Hale is unhappy with you for whatever reason, then you will be compensated for the days you helped him during his heat and he will find someone else.”

Stiles grew wary, as if he hadn’t considered that he might be replaced. “What would make you unhappy with me?” he asked Derek.

Derek shrugged, because he didn’t know either. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Stiles read through the rest of the contract, but Derek knew it was perfunctory. He somehow had the feeling that Stiles would still sign even if it said, 'Must eat a bloody toe.' He was desperate.

When he got to the last page, he carefully scrawled a signature on the line, initialed, then set the pen down.

“Very good,” Rockwell said, sheathing the documents into a manila envelope. “You will be notified when Mr. Hale's heat begins. The money will be sent to your account by the end of the day.”

“Alright. Cool.” Stiles looked happier, almost lightheaded with relief. “Is that all?”

“That is all.”

Stiles turned to Derek. “Any requests for that day? Nipple piercings? You want me to wax? Some manscaping down there?" He waved a hand around his crotch. "A strip? Arrow? Or how about a moon? I am more than happy to oblige.”

“Just show up,” Derek said.

"Oh, I will show up," Stiles declared as he got to his feet. “And when that day comes, I will rock your world.”

He gave a salute, and left. Derek saw him running across the street, grubby sneakers flashing over the grey asphalt.

“I have a bad feeling about this one,” Peter said, in his blithe manner, once he was gone.

Derek paused. He had been trying to take sips of his tea, but the flower kept getting in the way. “Because he’s weird?”

“No. Well, yes, he is weird, no doubt about that,” Peter said. He crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled. “Never mind. It’s your mistake to make. Far be it from me to tell another alpha what to do.”

Peter told people what to do all the time. It was his specialty. 

"What is it?" Derek said. "What bad feeling?"

"Guess we'll find out," Peter said, and winked.

 

* * *

 

His heat finally caught up to him on a sunny, Saturday morning, pouncing on him the way a sneaky cat might a not particularly bright mouse.

One moment he was playing lacrosse with his friends at the park, chasing after the ball with a vengeance, then the next thing he knew, he was on his back, staring up at a sky that had suddenly turned the color of bile.

Jackson’s amused face filled his view. “Better get home, loser.”

There was a bit of a fuss as his friends argued over who would drive him home. The idiots wasted some time doing a few rounds of rock-scissor-paper, when almost no one knew how to play and the rules had to be explained to half the participants. Then, several hands were yanking him up from the grass and stuffing him into the back seat of a car.

“Do you have someone?” Issac said, as they headed towards the preserve. The poor fucker had lost all three rounds. His eyes, framed in the rear-view mirror, were large and concerned under his snakey eyebrows. "Did you decide on a heat mate?"

“Mmm,” Derek said. He hissed when they hit a speed bump, and the jolt went through his body and punched him in the groin. It wasn’t really pain, just a crushing, breathless sensation, as if a two-ton gorilla was straddling his pelvis.

“Is that a yes?”

“Stop talking,” Derek grunted out.

Nothing else was said until the car crunched to a stop over the gravel driveway. He stumbled out, wincing in the sunlight, and let his mom guide him inside. Issac’s voice telling him  _It’s going to be okay! You’re going to be fine! Call me when it's over!_  faded away, joining the rest of the static-y haze that plugged his ears like cotton.

“Have you called him over?” his mom asked. “Derek, have you called Stiles?”

No, was the answer.

“Well, call him,” Talia said impatiently, when he stood there weaving like a drunkard that had just left a bar.

He found the scrap of paper he’d tucked between some books and punched at the keypad. His vision blurred on and off, like a camera lens trying to focus, and he regretted ignoring his mom’s advice to put Stiles’ number on speed dial. His thumb kept pressing the wrong buttons. He managed to get him on the second try.

“Hello?” Stiles said, and something inside Derek went boneless at the sound of his voice.

“I need you to come over.”

There was an inhale on the other side of the receiver, sharp and surprised. “Today?”

“Now.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Derek wanted him here right this instant, but there was no way for Stiles to teleport himself. An hour sounded reasonable. “Do you know how to get here?”

“Yeah, I do. I think. I’ll be there. Sit tight.”

Derek hung up. His room was slowly turning unbearably hot, and he stumbled downstairs to the couch in the den, phone still clutched in his hand. The sun had gone to the other side of the house. The cool leather was nice for a while, but then it too became unbearably hot and he slithered onto the floor.

He must have dozed off. He felt a touch on his cheek and opened his eyes. Stiles?

His mother’s face loomed before him, brows pinched in worry. “He’s late.”

“He’ll be here,” Derek said woozily.

Talia drew in a deep breath. “Derek. What do you know about him?”

Derek stared up at the ceiling. Nothing, was the answer. He was going to be having sex with someone he knew absolutely nothing about. The heat was strange; he felt sluggish, drugged, as if he were running a very bad fever more than anything else. Or trapped in a Swedish sauna. He didn’t even feel a smidgen of lust. The last thing he wanted was to have sex with someone.

“He’s going to be here,” he said again. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”

He could almost feel his mother's eye-roll.

He dozed off again, then woke up when the doorbell chimed dolefully throughout the house. Moments later, Stiles was hustling inside, sweat beaded along his hairline. He shucked a huge bag off his shoulders and noticed Derek sprawled out on the floor.

“Sorry I’m late,” Stiles said. “Some last minute things I had to take care of.”

Derek examined him without getting up. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” Stiles flapped a hand, as if telling him not to worry about it. He glanced around, eyes widening as he looked around. “Whoa, dude. Your dick is huge.”

“…What?”

“Your place is huge. My entire house could fit in your living room.”

Derek struggled to get up to his feet.

“Never mind me. You look horrible,” Stiles said.

“The room’s downstairs,” Talia said, reminding them both why Derek looked so horrible. She moved to help her son, but Stiles was already there, tucking himself against Derek's side, looping Derek's arm over his shoulder. A hand rested on his stomach and Derek hissed in pleasure. So this was why alphas in rut needed an omega. It felt as if he was sucking the heat away with his hand, turning it into the one cool spot on his body. 

“I got him,” Stiles said. “Lead on, Macduff. And I know that’s a misquote, by the way, so no thinking I’m dumb.”

Derek had no idea what he was talking about. He stumbled a little and reached out to grab the wall.

“You okay?” Stiles said worriedly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, straightening himself.

“Guess it’s really starting, huh?”

Still dizzy, he hummed in agreement. He managed the steps without tumbling down like something from a bad slapstick sitcom. They turned a corner, and there it was,  _the room_. The door had been left ajar after the maid came by to scrub it clean from top to bottom a few days ago. He went inside.

Stiles followed behind him and stopped a step away from door frame. He glanced about. There wasn’t much: a huge bed, and a bar filled with snacks and drinks tucked in the corner, a connected bathroom.

“So, this is where the magic happens, huh?” Stiles said.

Magic was not the word Derek would have used. Everything around him was slowly dissolving away, and he was fast becoming conscious of only two things: that Stiles smelled really good and that Derek wanted to rub all over him.

“The burritos were on sale at the Macho Taco, two for a dollar ninety-nine. Sweet deal, huh? I was going to get some for lunch. But then I remembered, nope, sex marathon starting soon, so I refrained myself. That would kill the mood pretty fast, huh? Non-stop tooting while we’re going at it like bunnies.”

Derek pressed the buttons making up the password on the intercom mounted to the wall and the door bolted shut with a loud  _thwunk_. Stiles jumped in surprise and whirled around, his chest heaving. Derek saw his throat bob.

“Dude, you could use this place as a torture chamber. Some hooks and pliers and you'd be good to go.”

“Wash,” Derek grunted. “And make it quick.”

“Oh,” Stiles said and exhaled. “Right.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Derek collapsed on the bed and spread his arms out wide. The linen was cool against his skin, fresh. It was embarrassing, to think that by the end of this, they’d be stiff enough to crack in half. He didn’t even want to think of what the room would smell like.

“I’m seeing several types of body wash here,” Stiles called out. “Tahiti beach. Golden luau. Fresh rain. Is there anything you specifically want me to smell like? Or is this all too flowery for you? Maybe I should have bought my own? Something like meat lover? Bacon delight? No?”

Derek closed his eyes and the chatter eventually unraveled to a stop. Moments later, the shower turned on.

Derek lay sprawled out, listening to the sound of water drumming over the tub. Right now, all he felt was a heaviness pulling him down, as if his body was turning into wet sand. But he could feel the heat curling around the edges, the fever creeping insidiously through his veins.

But there was a sense of relief, now that he had someone to fuck to his heart’s content, and he was locked away safely in the room. Peter had said it was freeing, just giving yourself up to your most base nature. He would let his wolf take over and let it have its way.

He lost track of the time. He opened his eyes when the bathroom door snicked open and a thin, rectangular slot of light fell over where he lay on the bed. He struggled to lift himself up on his elbows.

Stiles stepped out, bringing out with him the humid scent of hot water and soap. He was completely naked, skin damp and luminous in the hazy darkness. He took a step closer.

“Ta-daa,” he said. But the slightly hyper energy of before had left completely, as if washed away with the water and swirled down the drain. He was tense now, uncharacteristically subdued. He was trying his best to keep his arms pressed against his sides instead of crossing them over his chest, but he kept twitching.

Derek examined him. He was slightly thin, his knees and elbows bony, but not all that bad to look at. Derek didn’t tell him that, though.

He pulled his shirt off. His pants were considerably more difficult; his balance was off, and he felt as if he might topple over if he stood up. He hadn’t worn any underwear, so that was one less thing he needed to worry about.

Stiles watched all this in uneasy silence. His eyes flit over Derek’s chest and then down to between his legs. He stared at that place for a very long time. 

“How do you want me?” he said eventually, when Derek was done disrobing.

Derek inched over to the side. Stiles slowly climbed into bed and lay on his back and stretched his legs out. He clasped his hands over his chest as if he were praying. He looked as if he were lying on a very narrow plank.

Derek’s gaze went to his cock. It was clean and peachy, with a drop of rosiness to it and his mouth watered. And there it was again, that dark furl of contentment, the feeling that his wolf was immensely pleased with his choice of a heat mate. 

Carefully, he positioned himself over the skinny body beneath him, propping himself with his forearms. Stiles released the breath he’d been holding in, and it spread over Derek’s clavicle, warm and shuddery. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands and re-clasped them over his chest. He drew in another ragged breath.

Derek stroked his fingers through the small thatch of pubic hair, tugging gently.

“Is it…is it okay if I turn over?” Stiles asked suddenly. “If you don’t mind.”

Derek considered it, and was surprised to find out that he did mind, very much so. He wanted to look at his face as he fucked him. But if that’s what Stiles preferred. Besides, they had a lot of time. He wordlessly raised himself a bit so that Stiles could do just that. Stiles flipped over on his stomach, and Derek saw that his backside was dotted with moles. Lean muscles lined the long indent of his spine. Derek pressed his thumb in one of the dimples between his ass and waist. His hand drifted down and he felt Stiles trying to relax on the sheets. Derek slipped a finger between the cheeks, and scraped the pad of his finger along the puckered opening. He found that the skin there was dry of the slick that omegas produced when aroused. He didn’t know why he was disappointed. Stiles had made it very clear he was only doing it for the money.

He reminded himself that it didn't matter; it wasn't as if he liked Stiles either. He gripped the sides of Stiles' hips and gently moved his cock over the cleft in slow, sawing motions, astonished at the pleasure that simple movement brought. A dizzying ripeness was wafting off the thin body under him, sweet and sugary as a summer peach. This was going to be so fucking good. He'd be so _right_. He'd be...  

Derek drew back slightly.

Stiles was quaking in fear. His scent was pungent with terror, but Derek didn’t even need his sense of smell to realize this. Every line making up his body seemed to be trembling. His fingers were twisted in the sheets as if hanging on for dear life.

Derek was motionless for so long that Stiles lifted his head slightly. “Is… is there a problem?” he asked quaveringly.

And there was another reason why he’d asked if he could turn over. Two small, wet circles darkened the pillow. He was crying.

Derek grimaced in irritation. His head was beginning to go heavy and dull, a hot pain pooling in his groin, and he didn’t need this right now. He slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. After a moment, Stiles realized that the weight and warmth covering his body was gone.

“Derek. What is it?” Stiles said. He was trying to act natural, pretending that his voice wasn’t watery and all wrong. Derek swung his legs off the bed. “Derek, where are you going?”

“Bathroom.”

“Are you… are you coming back?”

He quickly closed the door shut without answering. The bright, yellow light stung his eyes after being in the dark. Having nowhere else to sit, he sat on the toilet.

He rubbed his face wearily with both hands. He didn’t know what to think. He had known there was a chance Stiles wouldn’t be as good as he claimed to be, but this… this he hadn’t been expecting. Why the fuck was he  _crying_ _and smelling all wrong_?

His brain was like a windowless room filling grey with smoke, and it was impossible to think. He had withered at the sight of Stiles’ tears, but the throbbing returned, a low roil that was half of what it had been before, but painful nonetheless. There was no other recourse. He jerked off, wiped himself with a towel, and the haze dissipated a little. He continued to sit on the toilet, staring down at his bare thighs because his head was far too heavy to lift up.

He was in there for a very long time. When he finally came back out, he saw that Stiles was still on his stomach, his head resting on the pillow. He had fallen asleep while waiting for Derek. A tear or two still clung to his lashes.

The mattress dipped as Derek crawled up on the bed again and lay beside the other boy. He skimmed his hand over the slope of Stiles’ ass. He knew that he could still fuck Stiles in his sleep; the kid had essentially permitted Derek to do anything he wanted to him during the next seven days or so, no matter how sick, how perverted, as long as he was alive and in one piece by the end of it.

He considered it, then flopped over on his back, a hand resting against his forehead. The fever was bad, but it wasn’t horrible. Another day wouldn’t hurt.

He pulled the blanket over Stiles’ naked body, covering him to his neck. Then, he closed his eyes and slept.


End file.
